Sentiment
by Mazoodle
Summary: Inspired by a lovely tumblr post. Post-Reichenbach. John tries to figure out the password to Sherlock's computer to see if there's any information on Moriarty locked within. He finds something unexpected, instead.
1. Sentiment

Sleep did not come easily to Dr John Watson. Even before his tour in Afghanistan, sleep had been a fleeting event. When he returned from the war, it had gotten worse. After Sherlock fell, sleep was non-existent. He felt the exhaustion curling at the corners of his mind and boiling behind his eyes, but no matter what John did, sleep never came.

He napped, but only briefly. The deep, restful sleep that John's body craved seemed out of his reach. Sarah had given him all sorts of sleeping medications that had had little to no success. At the most he gained three hours of dream-plagued rest before he jolted awake, covered in sweat and tears.

Now, two months later, John Watson settled in for another night studying the ceiling in his room at Baker Street. He couldn't bear to leave the flat. Mrs Hudson had suggested it might be better if he moved out, but John couldn't have imagined living anywhere else besides Baker Street. The flat gave him the reminder of Sherlock that he so desperately craved.

He was particularly restless that night. His leg twinged, his shoulder ached and his hand was shaking at his side. With a sigh, John pulled himself into a sitting position and grabbed his cane as he hobbled into the living room. He had cleaned it up considerably since Sherlock had died. The piles of Sherlock's loose papers were filed away, something he knew Sherlock would have despised. The kitchen was clean and free of experiments, though Sherlock's microscope was tucked into the corner by the toaster, untouched except for when John dusted it.

His rocker creaked as he dropped into it, resting his cane against the table beside it. He flipped on the telly and tried to focus on it for a while. John's mind wandered again to Sherlock, as it did every night when he couldn't sleep. He looked to the narrow hallway that led to Sherlock's room. He hadn't ventured over to that side of the flat yet. He had tried many times, but he always stopped just outside Sherlock's door. Something always stopped him.

A split decision and a slow walk later had John standing outside Sherlock's door with his hand on the knob, cane forgotten in the living room. With a deep breath he twisted the handle and was surprised when the door swung open. He had expected Sherlock to lock his room.

The air in the room was stale and a bit of dust stirred from the carpet as he padded in. It was shockingly clean for Sherlock. There was no molding experiments, no rotting body parts, hardly any stacks of files. The bed was made, the nightstand was clear of anything save for a few books. Situated on his bed was his laptop, which was still plugged into the charger.

John stepped forward and sat down on the bed, reaching for the laptop.

"_Password Required For User Sherlock Holmes_." John frowned. What would Sherlock have used as a password? He coughed slightly and pulled the computer onto his lap.

"_Deduction_." Incorrect.

"_The Science Of Deduction_." Incorrect.

"_The Game_." Incorrect.

"_SH_." Incorrect.

"_Bored_." Incorrect.

"_Get Sherlock_." Incorrect.

"_Consulting Detective_." Incorrect.

John sighed in frustration and slammed the lid closed. He had been stupid to think he could guess Sherlock Holmes' computer password. What would there even be on the computer that would interest him?

A few minutes passed where John stared at the laptop. What kind of secrets would Sherlock have encrypted within it? Why did John even want to know? Maybe something indicating his plans towards Moriarty? Personal business?

He pulled the computer onto his lap again with shaking hands, trying to think of what would stick out to Sherlock enough to use as a computer password.

"Sentiment," John muttered, thinking of Irene Adler's phone password. Sherlock thought of sentiment and attachment as a dangerous disadvantage, but whatever would stick out to Sherlock enough to use as a password would have to have some sort of attachment for him.

"_Mycroft_." Incorrect.

"_Irene_." Incorrect.

"_Irene_ _Adler_." Incorrect.

"_Mycroft_ _Holmes_." Incorrect.

"_Holmes_." Incorrect.

"God_dammit_!" John exclaimed, rubbing a hand across his face. What was Sherlock attached to? What was Sherlock _sentimental_ about?

"_Violin_." Incorrect.

"Think, John!" He said to himself, almost imagining that it was Sherlock's voice telling him to think, to go deeper, to deduct, to _understand_. What did Sherlock Holmes value?

The answer hit John like a ton of bricks.

"I haven't got friends," John murmured as he typed, "I just have one."

"_John_." Correct. The screen flashed and opened to Sherlock's desktop. There were folders lining the right side, each labeled.

"Blog, Finances, Work, Moriarty, John," He read off. John? A folder for him? Had Sherlock left this for him to find? Or was it just random information Sherlock had found. He clicked the folder.

There was one document inside labeled, "To John". With shaking fingers, John double clicked on the document and read.

"_John,_"

"_Mycroft told me once that emotional attachment was a defect, a fault, dangerous. I believed him for many years. Even as I type this, he's standing behind me, shaking his head in disapproval. He doesn't think you'll ever find this, and it's just as well if you don't, but I have a few things I need to say to you, for my own selfish benefit. This will be entirely out of character for me, so I do apologise for this._"

"_When you read this, John, I will be gone. This is unavoidable and entirely necessary. I'm going to explain why._"

"_When this business with Moriarty began, I formulated several possibilities for the endgame in my head. None of them were upsetting to me until quite recently._"

"_This, the ending where I die, was obviously one that I wanted to avoid, but only because I would have to stop my Work. Recently, however, I discovered another reason I wanted to avoid this. I did not want to hurt you, John Watson. You are my only friend. You are the best friend I have ever had. You mean more to me than any other being I have ever met. The intensity of my feelings towards you is unlike anything I have felt in my life. I know this has hurt you terribly. I know you will suffer for the actions I have to take to keep you safe. I know that your post-traumatic stress disorder will come back. I know your tremors will return. I know your limp will intensify. I know your nightmares will come back. I know, John, that this is my fault, and I am so sorry._"

"_There were times, when you first moved in, that I would be awake in the night and hear you upstairs. You cry out in your sleep when you have nightmares. At first it was an irritant, but as our relationship progressed, it concerned me. It started to upset me, even. You were in pain, and I cared. It was entirely new to me, to care for another thing._"

"_After a while I began to notice that if I played certain things, you would sleep better. You woke up in the morning more refreshed than normal. The thrashing and sounds stopped almost entirely. It was only when I played Tchaikovsky, however._"

"_In the last few months, the nightmares appear to have stopped completely, or you have been successful in hiding them, although I sincerely doubt that. It made me honestly happy that you weren't suffering and that it was because of my efforts that you were better. I have never cared for another being's condition so much in my life, and I have never directly related it to my happiness._"

"_You've changed me, John. Lestrade once told me that I was a great man, and that some day I could be a good one. You've made me a good man, John Watson, and for that I owe you the world. My appreciation is more than I can express through the medium of type. It may be more than I can ever express. Just know that I am eternally grateful for all that you've done and continue to do for me. It is more than I can ever repay you for._"

"_I'm rambling now, obviously, and Mycroft is anxious for my attention. I will leave you with this, Dr John Watson; This final sentiment from me._"

"_I do love you dearly, John, in more ways than I thought was possible. This is so awful and embarrassing to write; I can't believe I'm doing this. It needs to be said, though. For my peace of mind, I need you to know and understand that I love and care for you. More than anything in this world, I love you._"

"_I obviously understand if the feelings are not mutual. If that is the case, do disregard that last paragraph._"

"_I will see you soon, John Watson, and do make sure that Mrs Hudson doesn't try to throw away my skull._"

"_Yours,_"

"_Sherlock Holmes_".


	2. Epilogue Because You Guys Asked!

"Sherlock Holmes!" Mycroft's voice thundered through the Sherlock's flat as he very nearly kicked the door in out of anger. Sherlock looked up disinterestedly as Mycroft strode into the small living room, straightening his suit jacket and slamming the tip of his umbrella on the floor as he jolted to a stop.

"Afternoon, Mycroft. What do you want?" Mycroft slammed the tip of his umbrella down again, face nearly purple with rage.

"You told me you deleted that bloody letter, Sherlock!" he bellowed, face deepening in color. Sherlock frowned.

"Letter? What letter?" Mycroft visibly shook.

"The letter you wrote John on your bloody laptop! The same one I said we should destroy!" Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed his long fingers to his temples, quickly digging through his memories.

"I believe we had a misunderstanding, brother dear," Sherlock scoffed. "I deleted it from my memory, not from the laptop." Mycroft nearly exploded where he stood.

"You have now jeopardized John Watson's life, Sherlock! Do you realize that?" Mycroft bellowed, throwing his umbrella onto the floor. Sherlock watched his outburst with a raised eyebrow, unimpressed by his brother's antics.

"He thinks you're alive, Sherlock! Because of that _damn_ letter! I should have destroyed your computer as soon as you left me alone with it, but I didn't because of how much I knew you were giving up. Dammit, Sherlock!" Mycroft dropped his face into his hands and collapsed into the available, body shaking in anger.

"Are you quite done?" Sherlock asked calmly. Mycroft glared at him between his fingers.

"No, Sherlock! You've gone too far! I have more security on John Watson than is acceptable for my career and I cannot risk more without tipping him off more than you already have!" Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood, walking to a curtained window.

"It's over, Mycroft. I've taken care of the last of them. Just finished this morning, in fact." Mycroft's face paled.

"You've taken out the last of them?" Sherlock nodded evenly.

"Yes. In fact, I was thinking I could leave tonight or early tomorrow morning. I haven't got much here. I left most of my possessions at Baker Street." Mycroft blinked.

"You've finished this Moriarty business?" Mycroft asked again. Sherlock sighed in annoyance.

"You know I don't like to repeat myself, Mycroft, so do keep up." Mycroft shook his head.

"How in the world did you manage to take care of the last link without my notice, Sherlock?" Sherlock smirked.

"You'd be surprised how easy it is to slip things under your fat nose." Mycroft scowled and shook his head, straightening up in the seat and trying to sit as primly as possible. Sherlock resisted the childish urge to roll his eyes once again.

"Is it safe for you to go back to London, Sherlock?" Sherlock shrugged and yanked open a drawer, pulling files out and stacking them haphazardly over his desk.

"Safe enough. I'll call Lestrade tonight, tell him I'm coming back in." Mycroft spluttered.

"Lestrade? He knows?" Sherlock looked up at him.

"No, of course not you daft idiot. He'll know soon enough though." Mycroft shook his head.

"Sherlock, you can't just reappear after three months of everyone assuming you're dead and think everything will be fine and dandy. You're daft." Sherlock gave in to the urge to roll his eyes.

"I know that, Mycroft. I'm not an idiot," Sherlock snapped, shoving files into a bag.

"You'll have to stay slightly underground while I handle the government. Faking your own death isn't usually acceptable." Sherlock nodded, half listening. He had already gone through all of this in his head. He knew the outcomes and likely possibilities and he frankly didn't care.

"I read the letter, Sherlock. I know your feelings towards John." Sherlock froze.

"And?" he asked, careful to keep his emotion guarded.

"And what are you expecting, Sherlock? Are you expecting to waltz into your flat and into the arms of John Watson? Are you expecting this to all go away? The man thinks you're dead, Sherlock. My people are concerned for his psychological well-being." Sherlock didn't answer for a long time. He closed his eyes again and watched the possibilities of their reunion spin through his head and in front of his eyes.

"I know that my feelings towards John are mutual," Sherlock said carefully, pacing his rate of speech. "I'm sure he'll be angry. Upset. Enraged, even. I'm prepared to deal with the possibility that he may want me out of his life. Is that good enough for you?" Mycroft shook his head.

"I can't stop you, Sherlock. But I will not lift my security on you both. Do you understand? You aren't to leave the flat until I've told you it's safe. No new cases. Those are my stipulations." Sherlock opened his mouth to argue the cases point, but quickly snapped it shut. His whole body was tense and vibrating. It suddenly had registered that he was going to Baker Street, to home, to _John_.

"Fine. That's all fine. I'm leaving now, though. I'm going to see Lestrade." Sherlock picked up his packed bag and stepped quickly towards the door, pulling the collar of his hood up. Mycroft stood after him.

"Now? Right now?" Sherlock nodded, turning to face his brother.

"Why not? Have I got anything to wait for?" Mycroft didn't answer.

"I'd assume you'll take care of this flat for me." Mycroft nodded. Sherlock spun around and sprinted down the steps and out the door, flagging down a cab. He rambled of Greg Lestrade's home address and clambered in, setting the bag on the floor after him.

"Quite a drive," the cab driver commented. Sherlock nodded and looked out the window, fiddling with his mobile phone. Should he call John? Text? Just show up in the flat? John would be at the surgery right now and Sherlock knew he wouldn't make it home before him. He would wait, then. Maybe sneak in during the night and surprise John with a breakfast of some sort. Sherlock shuddered. Surprising John with breakfast. Entirely out of character and far too sappy.

On the drive back to London, Sherlock sent one text.

"_I'm coming back, Molly. Thank you for all you have done. SH._" It took an hour for Molly to answer back, presumably doing her job in the morgue.

"_Is it safe for you to be back? Does John know? Lestrade? It's no problem, Sherlock. Really._" Sherlock's lips twitched into a smile.

"_It's safe. I've finished things. John does not know. I'm going to Lestrade now. SH._" Sherlock looked up as the cab slowed outside Lestrade's flat. He paid the cab driver and rushed forward, ringing Lestrade's button.

"Who is it?" Sherlock sighed in annoyance.

"Let me in, Lestrade." The speaker cut out and for a minute Sherlock was left standing outside in the cold, glancing around. The area was blessedly empty.

"Who is this?" Lestrade finally spoke again, voice icy and serious.

"It's Sherlock Holmes. Let me in," Sherlock insisted.

"This isn't funny. Go away before I call the police." Sherlock sighed again and stamped his foot.

"Get down here, Lestrade. I can't be out long." There was a moment of silence before a buzz sounded from the door. Sherlock whipped it open and ascended the stairs quickly, knocking on Lestrade's door. He made sure he was in clear view of the peephole.

"My God," he heard from inside. The door opened slowly to reveal Lestrade standing pale-faced and awed. "It's actually you."

"May I?" Sherlock gestured towards Lestrade's living room and Greg silently stepped aside. Sherlock walked in, coat swishing as he swirled to face Lestrade, who was still staring at him with his mouth slightly agape.

"Oh do shut your mouth, Lestrade. You shouldn't be surprised." Greg's mouth snapped shut but his eyes stayed wide and disbelieving.

"You're alive. Sherlock, my God." Sherlock nodded, allowing Lestrade to process.

"How? Sherlock, how?" he demanded, stepping forward and shaking Sherlock's shoulders to see if this was actually real.

"Mycroft. I've finished this Moriarty business." Lestrade nodded and then stepped back.

"God, Sherlock. I'm sorry. I'msorry I didn't believe you." Sherlock waved his hand.

"It's in the past. Don't fret over it." Lestrade shook his head, still in disbelief.

"Does John know?" he demanded. Sherlock shook his head.

"No. I'm going there next and after that I'm not allowed to leave the flat until Mycroft has said it's safe." The end of Sherlock's sentence was colored with annoyance.

"Fine. That's fine." Lestrade nodded, stepping towards the kitchen. "Do you want anything?" Sherlock shook his head and sat heavily on Greg's couch.

"Can I stay for a few hours? I need to think." Lestrade shrugged and busied himself in the kitchen.

Sherlock laid back on the couch and pulled a nicotine patch from his pocket. He stuck it to his arm and closed his eyes, folding his hands over his mouth. For two hours he remained on Greg Lestrade's sofa, sorting through the emotions he was unaccustomed to feeling so acutely. He sorted through various reactions he expected from John. He thought about how Mrs Hudson would react when she eventually would wander upstairs and see him. Probably drop everything and hug him. He chuckled.

He sat up and tore the patch off his arm, chucking it towards the wastebasket in the corner. Greg looked up sharply from the show he was watching.

"What time is it?" Sherlock asked, standing and stretching.

"Seven. You off now?" Sherlock nodded.

"Could you call a cab for me?" Lestrade nodded and pulled out his mobile.

"I'm riding with," he said when he hung up. Sherlock said nothing, only grabbed his bag and swiftly descended the stairs, waiting inside the entryway for the cab. It took far too long to show up.

The ride to 221 Baker Street was easily the longest drive of Sherlock Holmes' life. He would never admit it, but as they drew closer to their destination, the amount of nervous tension in his chest swelled uncomfortably. Greg must have noticed, because he put a firm hand on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock started and turned towards him, eyes flashing with emotion.

"It'll be fine, Sherlock." Greg's voice was steady and reassuring, something Sherlock hadn't realized he needed until that moment.

"I hope so," Sherlock responded, voice infirm and soft. Greg smiled.

"Good luck, Sherlock. Call me if you need anything." Sherlock nodded and exited the cab. He slipped his key into the lock and held his breath, hoping Mrs Hudson hadn't changed the locks since he left.

She hadn't.

Stepping back into 221 Baker Street was like stepping back in time. Nothing had changed. A quick glance down the hall told that Mrs Hudson was out. Her door was shut and her lights were off. Another glance told Sherlock that no new tenants had moved in. It was still just John and Mrs Hudson. Relief washed over him, and with a deep breath Sherlock ascended the steps. He paused outside the door to their flat and wondered briefly if it was still _their_ flat, or if it was just John's now. He placed a surprisingly steady hand on the doorknob and paused.

A soft snoring came from the other side. John was usually a sound sleeper when he wasn't dreaming. Sherlock gently twisted the knob, surprised when it swung open.

Sherlock's eyes zeroed on John. He was on the couch, feet towards the door, head off to the side, arm flopped over the side of the couch. He was wearing another atrocious jumper. His face looked hollowed out and pale, dark bags under his eyes. His clothes were clean, but they hung off him. He had lost weight. Sherlock glanced in the kitchen. It was spotless. Either John had just scrubbed the entire place down or he hadn't eaten in three days or more, judging by the state of the dried on food on the only dish in the sink. He had cleaned up Sherlock's piles of papers, but he noted they were tucked away in new filing cabinets, labeled and alphabetical. He glanced at the mantle place and grinned. His skull was still there.

He walked softly across the floor, leaving his bag somewhere between the door and the sofa. John stirred slightly as Sherlock drew closer. He paused at John's side before kneeling down on the floor at John's head, close to John's arm.

He held his breath as John opened his eyes and looked blearily at it.

"That's it," John announced. "I've officially slipped into insanity. Or I'm dead." Sherlock shook his head and raised his hand, brushing it softly across John's cheek. John's eyes widened and he gripped Sherlock's wrist in his hand. Sherlock felt his finger brush across the vein there, checking for a pulse.

"I'm dead," John announced simply, not releasing his grip on Sherlock's wrist.

"No, John. We are both very much alive." John stood quickly, pulling Sherlock up with him.

"You're alive. You're really alive?" Sherlock nodded and John's grip on his wrist tightened.

"You absolute _idiot_, Sherlock! How could you?" John demanded, shoving Sherlock backwards and stepped away from the couch.

"John, I had to. Moriarty had guns on you." John's face reddened.

"I thought you died, Sherlock! I watched you jump! Do you even know how that felt? Do you?" John demanded, stepping forward to push Sherlock again.

"Stop, John. Don't shove me!" John shoved him again for good measure before he grabbed Sherlock's collar and yanked him forward, pressing their lips together heatedly. It was an angry kiss, full of resentment and hurt, but it was still John's lips moving against Sherlock's, and he needed it. John needed to feel Sherlock alive. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist before pulling back.

John looked up at him and suddenly dropped his arms.

"Oh God," he said suddenly. "You're real." Sherlock nodded, pursing his bruising lips together.

"And we just… I just… Was that alright?" John finally spluttered out.

"Better than alright, John." Sherlock stepped forward and pulled John against him almost tenderly, and then their lips were together again.

"How? How, Sherlock?" John demanded as he pulled back.

"I knew it was going to happen," Sherlock rushed out, emotions getting the better of him. "I arranged it with Mycroft. He had people on the street. I had to, John. Moriarty had guns on you and there wasn't another way." Sherlock paused, gasping for breath he hadn't realized he had lost.

John raised a hand, timidly this time, to wipe a tear that had rolled down Sherlock's sharp cheeks.

"You're back now?" John asked calmly.

"Yes. I'm back."

"And you're staying?"

"I will never leave you again, John. For as long as you want me, I'm here," Sherlock promised, pressing his forehead against John's, desperate for contact.

"You absolute wanker," John muttered affectionately. Sherlock smiled and he brushed his lips against the corner of John's mouth.

"You have every right to be mad at me, John. These last months have been absolute hell without you," Sherlock admitted softly. John nodded.

"I know the feeling." Sherlock smiled sadly and brushed his hand down the side of John's face. He leaned into the touch.

"Mrs Hudson will want to know you're back," John announced, making to move away.

"No, John. We'll tell her tomorrow. Tonight, I just want to be with you." John blinked at Sherlock's confession.

"If that's alright," Sherlock added as an afterthought. John smiled.

"Of course, Sherlock."

Things could wait for the morning. There would be a few calls to make, a few people to tell. They would beg Mycroft to pull security off and he would refuse. Mrs Hudson would burst into tears and hug Sherlock tightly against her, and Sherlock would let her. She would fuss over them for a few days, making sure they had tea and food and that the house was warm enough. She wouldn't leave until Sherlock practically had to tell her to. There would be a solid week where Sherlock tried to cook and failed, so they ordered take-out and ate it together on the living room floor. There would be nights where they would curl up in John's bed and appreciate the feeling of being together and nights where Sherlock would hold John against him in his own bed, relishing the feeling of John's breath playing across his chest.

There would be the inevitable confrontations of Donovan and Anderson, Sherlock's witty comebacks and Lestrade stopping before the real fight began. There would be days when Sherlock was raking over evidence and ignoring John, and John would understand and watch him work.

There would be all sorts of days, but at that moment, all that mattered was Sherlock and his blogger.


End file.
